


When the Day Ends

by leck



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Backstory, Gen, M/M, Spoilers, Suicide Attempt, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leck/pseuds/leck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I thought it was a lie when I came back. That is was all a bad dream. But it wasn't. That's when I really went insane . . ."</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Day Ends

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

            Why the hell did this happen?

            Who splattered the silk-screened walls and tatami floors of this room red, an ugly red that stained everything it touched?

            Who were the people lying on the floor, drowning in blood and wounds, their lives cut short? Whose pale, smooth skin dyed was dyed with the same red surrounding him? Who did this to her? Who neglected to feel her last words silently penetrate the air?

            Who tainted his bare skin, forcing black lines and fragile roses onto his once-innocent being? Who laughed quietly to himself, and who was conveniently missing from this ugly scene?

            Who was sitting alone now? Whose blood dripped from whose sword?

            Who knew this was going to happen?

 

            His arms shook tremendously, so much he couldn’t move anything else. His skin, albeit its hideous new marks, was as pale as the woman before him, lying face down on the ground. Letting out a cry of pain, he realized that it was his hand clasping his sword, the one he was always told to carry around. He released it with a jolt, shoving it away from his mother. She used to smile at him. She used to hold him and comfort him whenever he needed it. Frantically, he searched his mind for a possible explanation. Her final expression was pained, twisted in disbelief. Whatever had happened was a dream. He couldn’t remember anything, only pain, then darkness—

            The needles had pierced his nerves and set him ablaze with agony. His hands scraped into the ground as he restrained the tortured sounds of pain. Never in his life had he felt anything so gut-wrenchingly agonizing—whatever that pain was could not compare to the scene before him. This was an ocean of suffering, of bodies marred like his, wounded and dark with blood. The intolerable red clung to his body—he did not know whose blood it was. Most likely, it was a mix of all of it—was hers there? Suddenly, his chest ached more than it ever had, so much he wanted to collapse. What were her last words? She could’ve said anything—it didn’t matter. He never heard them. But he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d pleaded with him, or scolded him, or simply screamed. Maybe she tried to fight back. Maybe she’d accepted defeat. Maybe all she could say was his name.

            “Kou . . . ja . . . ku . . .”

 

            He wanted to scream, but his throat was dry. He wanted to leave, but he could not move. His thoughts began to pound into his head, one after another, the scent of blood clouding his senses, the mangled bodies lying limp on the ground—he buried his face in his hands, unable to stop shaking his head. _No . . . no . . . I did not do this . . . I—_

He released a pained cry. It echoed through the silent walls of the house, reiterating back into his mind. Nothing about it made him feel better. His heartbeat grew more and more unsteady as he closed his eyes, scared to look. Dark thoughts surfaced, try as he might to push them away. But he felt he needed to hear them. They were true.

            _I killed them._ He never was a violent person. The occasional schoolyard fight was the only trouble he ever made. _My mother is dead because of me._ Her body lay limp with the rest, their blood on his hands. Frantically, he shook it off, desperate. He wanted nothing more than to make it go away. He wanted to return to hours earlier, when if he’d told himself this was going to happen, he’d laugh . . .

Nobody laughed now. Anyone that could was dead, because he killed them. And his mother’s ringing, carefree laugh was among the fallen. That joyous, comforting sound would never reach his ears again. Not even her words could stop him—and in a room full of those related to the yakuza, he overpowered them all. What did she say? He was wondering again, and his head was pounding too hard.

            He screamed again, the house unresponsive. Breathing heavily, thoughts entranced, he reached for the sword he had pushed away. His kimono was already open, hanging off his lower body. It would make his task easier. Unsheathing it, he grasped it firmly, hands shaking, his deep, frantic breaths filling the haunting silence. Only a monster would kill his mother. If he would hurt the most important person in his life without hesitation, ignoring what may have been desperate cries, what did it say about him? He stared at his chest, the tip of his blade gleaming among the sharp black lines engraved into his skin. He was imprisoned now, marred with a mark worse than any of the bodies in the room. He would hurt so many people like this, people who did not deserve to die, people with dreams and aspirations and children . . . children like himself, innocent, who would never dream of killing their mothers . . .

            He urged the blade closer to his stomach, hands shaking more than ever. Whatever he did, it would happen again. This body was capable of brutal damage. His thoughts rushed faster and faster, his head pounding harder and harder. _I’ll go mad, and massacre everyone, and nobody will be able to stop me._ Sweat poured down his forehead, mingling with the blood that covered his body. _Only I . . . I can stop myself . . ._

“I need to die,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. His breathing felt uncontrolled; his nerves on edge, as if he would slip into the slaughterer he had become at any moment. “It will be better . . .” The tip of the blade was a centimeter from piercing his skin. He stared at it, eyes clouded in thought. With a forceful push, he would save countless lives. Future disasters couldn’t happen if he could no longer cause them. And his mother . . . his mind was made up. Nobody deserved to live after committing such a heartless crime. Every day knowing that would give him an unbearable burden—no, this was not a burden. This was sin—whatever he did, he was going to burn for eternity, whether it be this world or the next. _This is right. I will end my life doing what is right, after wronging so many. The world needs to be safe._

“I’m sorry . . . Mother.” He drew in a slow, steadier breath. “I’m . . . sorry.”

            His breaths were longer now. The stench of the room and the guilt that plagued him threatened to send the sword straight through him. He would have wanted it to. But his thoughts were moving too fast for him to register, to fully settle on one idea. But one idea became prominent as he kneeled, his knuckles whitening from his tight grip on the handle. He was shorter, and happier—these were the times he was truly innocent, and next to him walked his beautiful friend, who gripped his hand tightly. It was warm, and he was holding onto him as if he needed him, as if he was the strongest person in the world. He gasped, drawing his blade away. _No,_ he panicked, the image of the little boy growing clearer and clearer. Gleaming, beautiful topaz eyes. Skin rough from playing around, showing off to the boy he looked up to, after he’d tease him. The feathery, flowing blue hair that he could never touch. It was the strangest thing he’d ever seen; hair that ached when brushed, that scissors could not shear, because the pain was unbearable. Aoba Seragaki’s hair. The hair he’d sworn he’d touch one day, without causing any pain. He was going to learn how to care for it properly, learn the art of hairdressing in the hopes that one day, Aoba would let him run his fingers through those soft blue locks. He rushed back to the day he met him, when he was in tears, taunts and jeers surrounding him as older kid’s vile hands tugged on his hair, finding amusement in drawing relentless pain . . . he really was in the Old Resident District now, little legs charging straight towards them, arms swinging left and right in a blind haze of rage. Before his nine-year-old fists could cause any significant damage, they fled, leaving their poor victim alone, for him to comfort. The air wasn’t thick at all. Instead, glimmering eyes watched him in amazement. Face bright red—unsure if it was from running or not—he rubbed the back of his neck, smiling shyly.

“Are you alright?” The other kid rubbed his eyes and nodded quickly. “I’m Koujaku.”

            “Aoba.” _Aoba._ If he could see what had become of him. He smiled, teeth white, eyes gleaming. The evening air, once breezy and calm, grew dense with the smell of something rotting. The sky began to disappear as he walked along broken streets that slowly turned to blood-stained tatami . . .

            “Don’t do this to me.” He pulled the sword away, relieving his hands of its grip. His voice was dry and shaky; he was pleading with himself, with the image of a childhood friend, smiling widely and offering his hand. Now they were teasing each other, now they jumped fences and invented new games, now he was eating his grandmother’s food as he smiled again. Would Aoba fall to his blade as well, his last words pleas he would never hear? But if he died like he should, how would he react? “Don’t . . . do this . . .” He cut himself off, unable to speak any longer. Choking, gasping breaths replaced his words, tears mingling with the blood and the ink and everything that tainted his skin, falling to the floor, like everything else. He couldn’t stop its flow; it only increased in intensity as images burned and flickered in his mind, as if his life and his memories were the flame of a candle. The sea of blood . . . the voice of a child. A cheerful day in the rain . . . his own screams, the laughter of an older boy . . . his mother’s corpse . . .

            Bearing the weight of what he had done . . . how could he live like that? Tears still streaming down his face, he slid his blade towards him, hands shaking more than ever before. “Aoba . . . will be fine . . .” He unsheathed it a fraction of the way before slamming it shut again, allowing it to fall. _You killed your mother._ “Aoba will . . . be fine . . .” Slower than ever, he picked up the blade, removing its sheath the full way this time. His sobs hanging in the air, he aimed it towards his chest, gritting his teeth between frantic, uncontrolled breaths. His eyes closed; he didn’t want to see it, and he didn’t want his eyes open when he died.

            Koujaku gasped, eyes reopening. He should not have chosen life, but whatever he did, the sword wouldn’t cut. Because every time he tried, Aoba’s smile would come back—that was when he realized it. He didn’t want to live so Aoba wouldn’t cry over him. He wanted to see Aoba again before he did it.

            And he would do it. But there was someone else he wanted to see, too. The mastermind behind his rage, the man who forced these ugly scars onto his body, the scars and stains Aoba would undoubtedly ask him about, the scars he would refuse to explain. That was between him and Ryuuhou, his new worst enemy. And when the day ended, the day when he’d killed the only other survivor of this day, he would end the life that threatened so many.

            But at least he’d get to see Aoba first.  

**Author's Note:**

> I was totally planning for this to be an awesome, longer fanfic that goes back and examines Koujaku's life on the island after returning . . . but school is evil and my inspiration's dried up. This is kind of experimental, as it's my first time writing Koujaku. But I'll probably write more, because I love this character so diddly-darn much, and he has taken over my life. Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed (despite its lack of any sort of creativity)!
> 
> 3/9/14 - I've decided to expand this work. It's going to be so much better, I promise. But this scene will remain, possibly better than it is right now. If I finish it, I'll definitely post it!


End file.
